


cohabitation

by abbyleaf101



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Jane Prentiss (mentioned) - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Sasha James (mentioned) - Freeform, The Care and Feeding of Jon Sims, Tim Stoker (mentioned) - Freeform, developing feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbyleaf101/pseuds/abbyleaf101
Summary: '“Who - oh. Hello, Martin.” Short, but not acidic. Surprised, too.“I was just - going to order some dinner, and I wondered if maybe, um, maybe you wanted some? If you were going to - stay here.” Martin winced, because way to go, that didn’t sound accusatory at all. Fantastic start, Blackwood. “Only, um, there’s a minimum delivery charge - not that! Not that that’s the only reasons I asked you! Just. I only mentioned it so you didn’t feel it was a - ““Yes,” Jon’s voice cut across the ramble, which was honestly a relief. And then Martin processed what Jon had actually said - apparently at the same time Jon did.. His expression was - hard to parse. Startled, although whether at Martin’s asking or his own acceptance it was hard to tell.'A snapshot of Martin's developing feelings for Jon during his months spend living at the Archives.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 9
Kudos: 112
Collections: Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2019





	cohabitation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).



> Written for RQ Secret Santa 2019! 
> 
> I hope this goes some ways towards being satisfying, requester! Inspired by your request for anything that deals with the development of Jon's personal relationships, and also you mentioned in your letter that you liked food-as-affection! So here is a very, very early snapshot of Martin extending affection and therefore learning to read Jon, whose waiting for Martin to reveal this was all an awful prank and he's being laughed at.
> 
> I always felt that Martin's feelings for Jon really start to develop during his stay in the Archives in the latter half of S1, and that it was probably an opportunity to start seeing underneath Jon's self defensive armour. It also helps explain his loyalty heading into S2. Plus, the origin point of Jon's feelings for Martin, even if he takes much longer to recognise them. I wish there was more fic exploring that period of time, so - here's my contribution!

Living in document storage was - weird. 

Not as weird as being stalked by some kind of _eldritch worm lady_ , obviously, and if he ever saw another can of peaches again it would be too soon. Nothing quite as horrifying as having to plug the gaps under his door and around the window frames with old socks and jumpers, obviously. Nor anything quite so terrifying as the way the only thing worse than the constant knocking were those long, empty moments where the noise _stopped_. Not to mention the sheer boredom of being stuck inside for two weeks with only secondhand paperbacks and his own mediocre poetry for company.

But still.

The corridors of the Archives echoed eerily at night, the direction of sound hard to pinpoint. It seemed, sometimes, as if something was circling - closing in on him, slowly. Hunting, or - playing, the way a house cat might with a mouse. Which, granted, maybe something was circling, given that Martin was living in the Archives _because_ said eldritch worm lady had stalked him home and trapped him there. Stalked him home _because of the Archives_ , even, although the breaking and entering and subsequent light trespass was less about the job description and more about a spiteful impulse to prove his asshole boss wrong. And he had, kind of, although that particular motivation seemed to get a little more distant every day. Jon was still prickly and short and demanding, but there had been a - thawing, lately. Learning that said eldritch worm lady had also _impersonated him_ via text message added a layer of surreal horror-comedy Martin hadn’t quite been able to process yet. 

But there were worse things in the Archives than the directionless creaking of an old building settling and the lingering psychological effects of sentient worms that knew how to text. Sometimes the endless circling seemed to resolve itself, triangulating down and down and down until it pinpointed on Artifact Storage. Everyone always said that it was perfectly safe. If supernatural or cursed or otherwise evil objects even existed, and some of them happened to reside in the Institute, there was no reason to believe any of them posed a threat to Martin, sleeping an entire floor away and behind an atmospherically sealed door. Even the post-graduate students were allowed in there as long as they had gloves and wore the proper safety glasses. Anything potentially dangerous was quarantined, and everything else just - coincidence, or mass hysteria, or some as-yet unrecognised but long denatured disease. But Jane Prentiss had been real enough, and thinking about what else might be banging around in the forgotten crevices of the Institute after everyone else had gone home was - well. Probably better not to think about it at all, given that he didn’t have much of a choice about staying. The kitchen knife under his pillow _did_ make him feel slightly better about it, though.

Living at your place of work was just garden variety _weird,_ anyway. The microwave always smelled faintly of tuna, no matter how many times he scrubbed it. The fridge had generations of mould older than he was, to the extent tiny microbial civilisations were probably inventing their first forms of written language. All of the kitchen work surfaces were stained slightly yellow, all the walls slightly brown. It didn’t bear thinking about what colour the carpets had been originally, given they were now a mottled off-grey. There were no teaspoons but twelve soup spoons, and sometimes turning on the lights in the kitchen blew out the fuses on the whole floor - except for Elias’s office, apparently? His feet stuck to the section of tiling in the bathroom closest to Jon's office for no discernible reason. The sofa in the break room had no springs, apart from where they pushed through the seat fabric and tore holes in whoever tried to sit on them. Not to mention carrying his laundry back from the launderette always involved at least one awkward trip in the lift with another Archives employee, since the closest one was only open during normal business hours. At least it was usually only Rosie who saw.

The weirdest part, however, was definitely that Martin was technically living with his boss.

Not officially, of course. Not even in the officially unofficial way Martin was living at the archives. Jon almost certainly still had a flat somewhere - a flat he even managed to sleep in occasionally. Martin thought it was probably somewhere on the Northern Line, given how much grouchier he seemed to get whenever there were delays or maintenance out that way. Not that Martin was - paying undue attention, of course, but forewarned _was_ forearmed, after all. His mother had always been - well. Nevermind that. Wherever the flat may or may not have been, Jon didn’t spend every night there - or even the majority of them, as far as Martin could tell. When he made the trek to the bathroom in the middle of the night and found the light in Jon’s office still on, voice spilling out into the corridor despite the closed door muffling the words. Or looked up from early morning coffee to see Jon finally leave the Archive as the sun crept through the window in the break room, blinking tiredly against the light, only to be back a few hours later wearing a new shirt and dark smudges under his eyes.

So - a flat, but not one Jon went back to very often. Probably not one he felt particularly _comfortable_ in. Not that there was ever anything as incriminating as a toothbrush left in the bathroom or socks on the radiators, but Jon _had_ said he's slept on the cot in document storage sometimes, way back when he's first offered to let Martin stay in the Archive. At the time he'd just been relieved to be believed, but now it made Martin wince in sympathy just thinking about Jon sleeping in his office chair, instead. Not enough to offer it back to him, since Jon did have somewhere else to sleep, if he wanted. But enough to make him slightly more sympathetic to Jon's - well, just to Jon. Maybe the sympathy for Jon's back bled out into other places - or maybe it was the memory of Jon’s worried face while he gave his statement, or the way his hair stuck up at the back when he’d been running his fingers through it distractedly. 

Which was why Martin was standing outside Jon’s office at 10pm on a Friday night, take away menu for the decent Chinese place around the corner clutched in hand. Had spent the better part of talking himself into and then back out of asking, but - but this was fine. Ordering food with your coworker was an entirely normal thing to do that thousands of people did every day. Hell, he and Tim and Sasha _did_ do it every Friday lunchtime, provided one of them wasn't running around an old graveyard or flirting their way into medical records. This was - exactly the same thing. Just. Later. Besides, the lights in Jon's office were still on, and Martin could hear the indistinct sound of Jon’s voice through the door. Probably not - no, _definitely_ not Jon recording a new statement, unless he’s somehow learned how to rewind his own voice like that. Which he wouldn’t put past him, really. Either way, the recording in question lacked the crackling static quality that characterised the statements that just wouldn’t record digitally. Probably safe enough to knock on the door, at least.

“Jon?” 

“ _Who_ \- oh. Hello, Martin.” Short, but not acidic. Surprised, too.

“I was just - going to order some dinner, and I wondered if maybe, um, maybe you wanted some? If you were going to - stay here.” Martin winced, because _way to go_ , that didn’t sound accusatory _at all._ Fantastic start, Blackwood. “Only, um, there’s a minimum delivery charge - not that! Not that that’s the only reasons I asked you! Just. I only mentioned it so you didn’t feel it was a - “

“Yes,” Jon’s voice cut across the ramble, which was honestly a relief. And then Martin processed what Jon had actually said - apparently at the same time Jon did. His expression was - hard to parse. Startled, although whether at Martin’s asking or his own acceptance it was hard to tell. 

“W - well. I have, I was going to get Chinese, from that place around the corner? But - but there are others, um, I think I have an Indian and a Thai menu, and obviously there’s -” 

“Chinese is. Fine.” 

" - pizza, or... Oh. Oh! Okay, that's. Great."

Jon looked - even more bewildered than before, somehow. Even more bewildered than _Martin_ felt, as if the thought of getting dinner with a colleague had never occurred to him before. Maybe it hadn’t. Hardly one for break room socialising, was Jon. He never joined them for whatever the delivery of choice was on a Friday night, or put in an order when Tim made a run to the cafe for sandwiches. But then, none of them ever asked him, did they? Not explicitly. No-one ever seemed to invite him to much of anything, after the first dozen refused invitations. Wrong footed, and with his hair a mess and glasses askew, tie abandoned in the riot of paperwork and discarded mugs on his desk, eyes wide, he looked almost - 

Nope. Nuh-uh. No. Not happening, Blackwood. 

Still. 

Jon held one hand out for the menu, the other arm crossed over his chest to prop up the elbow of his outstretched hand. His shoulders were drawn up around his ears, jaw locked so tightly Martin could see it jumping from across the room. Eyeline somewhere over Martin’s left shoulder, although that wasn't unusual in and of itself. Discomfort, for sure - maybe from the proximity? The hour? Because it was _him_? Martin dropped the menu into his hand, and caught a half second of - something, across Jon’s face. Hesitation, maybe? Watched Jon smooth the menu out on his desk between them, hands squares very precisely at each bottom corner, thumb and pointer fingers at right angles to each other.

“What - what are you, ah, ordering?” Jon asked, eyes darting between Martin’s face and back down at the menu. Martin leaned forward to get a better view of it, conscious of Jon’s gaze and the fact he hadn't, actually, gotten around to deciding on an order for himself. The silence prickled uncomfortably at the back of Martin’s neck, but it wasn't as - mortifying, as he feared it might be. Awkward and stilted, but Martin was more than used to awkward and stilted. Much better than overtly hostile. Jon seemed to relax, a little, when all Martin did was twist the menu a little so he could get a better look and prop his hip against the edge of his desk. Slowly the hurriedly snatched glances slowed, too, as did the tension in his hands. At least until Martin noticed Jon's attention seemed to be caught on the extras menu, and opened his mouth to make a joke.

“ _What_?”

Martin cringed, the sound loud in the quiet of the office, sharp and cutting. Should have expected it, really. But the silence that followed was quieter, somehow, except for the ragged little exhale from across the desk. When he risked a glance upwards again, Jon’s whole body was stuck in a kind of aborted flinch. Chin tilted upwards but face turned away, teeth clenched tight enough that Martin's teeth ached in sympathy. Jon's shoulders back up around his ears again, hunched over. He pushed the menu back across the desk to Martin before withdrawing his hands, arms crossed across his chest. It looked - 

Oh. Frightened. Jon looked frightened. 

“I was just - we could split a portion of something, if you wanted?” Martin swallowed back the joke, and the hurt. Looked at Jon and the wariness lurking in the tightness around his eyes, the tension in his hands. Martin knew how it felt, to be preemptively braced for cruelty or at the very least, derision. Granted, his strategy was to be overtly helpful and unassuming and hope people just gently overlooked him - but he could see how, for someone else, lashing out before someone had the opportunity to do it to you might seem like a viable strategy. Hardly fair, but it can feel - necessary, at the time. Protect where you’re most vulnerable. He'd never considered maybe Jon felt something similar, but. Well. “Or - or we don’t have to, but better than wasting food, right? Or - or going without.” 

A cautious nod. When Jon uncurled one arm from across his chest to reach for the menu again, Martin pushed it back across the table towards him. Jon laid it out flat again, thumb and pointed finger at right angles but the menu tilted towards Martin. It felt like some kind of bizarre, slightly stained peace offering. Or like the scraps he used to leave out for the feral kitten outside his building, the one he’d slowly tempted closer and closer until he was trusted enough for the occasional, cautious petting. 

It seemed to be working about the same, at any rate. Didn’t take long to work out an order between them, scrawled on the back page of whatever notepad Jon had nearest to hand. 

“And a - the, the prawn crackers? If you - if you want?” A rusty smile taped onto the end of the sentence, its own kind of olive branch. 

“Sure.” Martin double checked the order, the things Jon had added to the order - for himself and to share. Felt a little curl of satisfaction every time Jon hesitated but added something else to the order, requested extra mushrooms in his vegetable chow mein and a little pot of sweet and sour dipping sauce for the spring rolls and prawn crackers they’d decided to share. Martin might be kind of awful at his actual job, but _this_ , this he could do. Taking care of people who didn’t want to be taken care of, least of all by _him._

And then it was just a matter of - waiting. And probably he should just go back to the cot, let Jon get on with his work in peace, but. 

“I, uh. I was. Going to eat in the kitchen, if - if you wanted to, join me?” 

The flash of - something, again. A slight widening of the eyes and Jon’s fingers tapping on his arm before the shutter came down again, hard. 

“I suppose - yes.” Martin scrambled to get off the desk as Jon pushes his chair back. He hit a pile of papers with an elbow in his haste, sending the whole neat stack fluttering to the floor in a jumbled, sprawling pile. Martin immediately knelt to try and scoop them up, sending the last few leaves floating solemnly to the floor. God, he'd gone almost a whole conversation without making a fool of himself, and then he had to go and do - that. Martin felt hot, humiliating tears prickling behind his eyelids. No doubt Jon would have something to say about _this_ , but the expected mockery didn't come. Not even an aggrieved exhale. Instead, Jon knelt opposite him, started shuffling the papers closed to him into a loose, neat pile. When Martin finally risked a glance up from his own hands, though, Jon just looked - tired. Maybe a little amused, but he just offered a small smile when Martin met his gaze.

“I’ll - in the morning,” and stacked them on the desk, patting the top of the pile fondly. Didn’t offer Martin a hand up, but also didn’t seem impatient about it, mostly just awkward, elbows tucked against his sides at odd angles and gaze doing the darting thing again, never quite settling. Nervous. But he swept one hand out towards the door, gesturing for Martin to go first, and at least his arms were no longer crossed awkwardly over his chest. So maybe making a fool of himself was - well. Had it's uses. 

The walk back to the kitchens was - awkward. Quiet. But not - unpleasant, and Jon gave a jerky nod and sat down at the little table when Martin asked if he wanted tea. 

“Ah, thank you, Martin, for - for this,” long fingers curled around the mug. He glanced up at Martin’s face and away again, fingers tapping against the ceramic. Shoulders down now, though, and less likely to bolt at any second. He’d already said thank you for the tea when Martin handed it over, so this was probably for - not that. The food and the invitation, then? 

“No problem,” Martin said, and took a sip of his own tea. Maybe he should - offer more often, then.


End file.
